Steel My Young Boys' Hearts
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: Alternate ending to my 1990-LOTF-film epilogue, "The Boys With Iron Hearts". Jack's younger brother dies in an accident back at home, and Jack learns of it from his parents around Chapter IV. Losing the one person he always cared about changes Jack considerably.
1. Chapter 4- Terms

**Chapter IV- Terms**

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**A/N: This story starts out using a lot of text from "The Boys With Iron Hearts", and since this story diverges from that one at Chapter IV, there is no Chapter I, II, or III. Just before he is to confront Ralph over what to do over what happened on the island, Jack receives some bad news from home…**

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Just two weeks later, the heat was on for real. Each of the boys had taken a thorough grilling, but either out of loyalty to or fear of Jack, they all kept silent. Many, too young to fully understand all that had happened on the island or why, were all too willing to fall in line. The bad time had passed now, banished to their occasional nightmares. The young ones wanted no more to do with it than that.

It was when the police stopped by that Jack really started to get worried, though of course he never let his fear show. If the police were here, even if just to visit with a few staff, that meant someone was thinking- at least thinking- murder. And that just wasn't good; not at all.

Jack was sitting in the Cadet Officer's Club, halfway through writing "RED-47" on a scrap of notebook paper, when he noticed a shadow fall over him. Looking up, he found himself staring at Ralph. For a few moments, the two simply stared. Neither seemed too sure of what to say. Finally, Jack spoke. Keeping his voice neutral, he said, "Was there something specific you wanted?"

Ralph looked grim, but also determined. "I wanna talk. Make a deal."

Jack returned to writing on the paper. "Too late."

"It's a deal you'll want to hear."

The blonde rebel looked up and stared at Ralph, surprised and amused. Finally, he pocketed the scrap of paper. Ten seconds' time would be enough to finish it and get it to Roger if the need came. "All right," Jack said, motioning to the armchair across from him. "Talk."

Ralph just stood where he was. He seemed slightly dazed, as if he couldn't believe he was doing this. "I know where that club of yours meets."

Jack suddenly became intensely interested in polishing his capshield. "Never heard of it," Jack said dismissively. "Must be new on campus. Think they'll let me join?"

"Come on, Jack, cut the fuckin' crap!"

Jack stared.

"Point is, I _know_, okay? Let's not waste time here."

Jack returned to buffing his capshield, picking up the dress hat again. "So don't."

"I want a meeting out there; next Friday night. 2300. I wanna discuss terms."

"Of what, _Colonel_?" Jack asked, putting sarcastic emphasis on the title.

"What's going on. You know and I know something's gonna get found out, sooner or later. Longer this goes on the funnier it's gonna look. I meet you out there and we talk about it."

Jack shrugged. "I don't know, Ralph," he said enigmatically, "I don't know if you realise how many boys here have their precious little careers in danger because of you. It's got them _very_ scared."

"You get them there too, if you want."

Suddenly, Jack got an idea. "How about we duel? Hand-to-hand, swords- guns if we had 'em. Something like that. I win, you shut up and transfer to another school. You win," Jack shrugged, "I'll leave. Confess, whatever you want. But you know what? If you wanna talk, whatever we do, we'll talk first. Talk all you like."

Ralph stood silent for a few moments. Jack took something out of his pocket and placed it in Ralph's hand; a white piece of chalk. "Tell you, what, Colonel, since I've got a real busy day and all. If you wanna take my deal, put an X on my door before chow next Thursday. I'll make all the arrangements."

As Jack stood and started to walk out of the lounge, Ralph said, "I thought you said you didn't belong to any club."

Jack shrugged. "I don't."

Then Jack turned and walked out, leaving Ralph alone in the COC, with the single white piece of chalk still in his hand.

The weekend passed, uneventful as it was. Jack kept busy, but was remarkably unconcerned by the ongoing investigation of the events on the island. He was in a tight spot here, sure, but he'd been in tighter jams than this. He'd get out of it, one way or another. On Thursday, though, things changed. A phone call came from home with news Jack hadn't bargained on. The OG called him down to the main TAC office, and right away Jack had a funny feeling about this phone call. Normally whoever was OG didn't need to _act_ nonchalant about a call from home.

When he got down to the office, Jack walked inside, sat down at the desk in front of Master Chief Wayne, and picked up the black desk phone. "Hello?" he said, doing his best not to sound nervous, and wondering again why that was even necessary. He did his best to stay calm as his father's voice came on the line.

"Jack, there's no easy way to say what I need to say to you now. Just promise me you… you'll stay calm, okay? As best you can at least."

What did _that_ mean?

Feeling a deep, unmanning feeling of terror come into his heart, weakening his knees until Jack didn't think he'd be able to stand up again if he had to, Jack tried desperately to tell himself it wasn't what he thought it was. His mind always went to one place when something told him his deepest, darkest, most closely-guarded fear might have the remotest chance of being realised.

Jack realised after a moment his father was waiting for a reply. His throat seemed to have closed up, permitting no air to speak. Finally, Jack nodded and said, "Yeah, Dad. Yeah."

Charles Merridew's voice was grim; real grim. He'd never liked being the bearer of bad news; the sobbing he'd had to hear, the heartbreak he'd had to see, after Jack's beloved guinea pig Felix had died when he was six had been bad enough. Despite knowing he was probably in for more than one round of delivering news that a pet has died of old age, Charles Merridew had secretly hoped ever since that even if he had to deliver bad news a thousand times to one of his sons through his remaining years, never, ever would it be worse than losing a guinea pig. Please, he'd hoped year after year, please let it be no worse than that.

Fortune had not smiled on the Merridew household this year. Clearly not.

On the other end of the line, Jack was starting to panic. A fine sheen of sweat had broken out on his face; he was nervously fidgeting with his collar to keep still. It was that or squeeze the phone until shrapnel shot out all over the TAC office. What was going on? What was his father about to tell him? He'd never heard his dad talk like this since…

Since…

_My guinea pig died_, Jack thought with a new rush of rising panic. _And I don't have a guinea pig right now_.

Then his dad finally forced himself to speak. It was now or never, goddamnit, and with a silent casting upward of his eyes, Charles Merridew asked whatever God was up there why in Hell it had to be now.

"There was an accident, Jack. Michael was playing on the balcony in our bedroom, the one overlooking the back yard. Your mother and I were watching, but we weren't close enough. He tripped against the railing…" Charles Merridew's voice gave out again. He could say no more. Reliving that day even one time more was plenty bad enough. The thing that pained him most was knowing the whole affair was far from being over.

Jack gripped the phone tight, shutting his eyes. Suddenly he forced himself to talk, to ask one question. He had to know this.

"Did he hurt, Dad? How'd it happen?"

"He landed on his neck, Jack. He was scared a few moments, I think, but that's all. He didn't feel a thing."

"He felt no pain, Jack. I don't know if that helps, but your brother suffered no pain."

Jack's chest hitched once, twice. He was cracking up fast, and he knew it. But he was at military school, for God's sake- whatever might be going on at home, he was in uniform here. He had a rep to protect.

Suddenly Jack realised he needed to be alone. He needed to go someplace where no one could see him, where he'd be left alone. Readying himself to talk one more time, Jack barely heard his father explain carefully that his parents would be coming to pick him up on Sunday, in time for the funeral the next day. They wanted to spare Jack the pain of being home while preparations were made, and somewhere in his mind Jack appreciated that. But the pain dulled everything; Jack was feeling a sense of loss so deep, a kind of internal agony so intense, he wouldn't have believe it possible. Nothing mattered. No amount of kindness now could make up for what Jack had lost.

Finally Jack said, "Thanks, Dad. I'll see you Sunday" and hung up the phone. He didn't bother looking at Master Chief Wayne, nor did he say anything; for once, the Chief was unsure of what to say, too.

But he did make sure the OG saw Jack up to his room; Jack was known for being tough and resilient, not normally one to be concerned about being a possible danger to himself or others. Wayne had delivered news of the death of a family member many times to sailors he served with in the fleet; in his experience, the ones who showed their grief right away, however much they tried to tough it out and hide it, were nearly always okay in the end. It was the ones who showed no reaction at all, who just shut down and functioned like robots after the news hit them, that you usually needed to watch. Jack had started looking like he was going to bawl right about the instant he was told.

As Wayne watched him go, he was thankful Jack's roommate wouldn't be coming back from the string-instrument section of the band's trip to Bunker Hill Military Academy for at least another hour. Jack was probably gonna need some alone time.

Jack did not remember later how he got up to his room that night. He barely even remembered the conversation with his father over the phone. But he did remember, with excruciating clarity, the news that he'd received. Jack held his composure long enough to make it up to his room and close the door; he didn't bother to turn on the lights. Instead, he sat down at his desk in the dark, put his head in his arms, and cried until the surface of the desk moistened with his falling tears. Before long Jack realised crying wasn't going to help, would never make a difference however long he did it. He went on anyway. It was the only thing left to do.

Memories flashed through Jack's mind every time he closed his eyes; they just worsened the pain and intensified the sobs. Playing in the back yard- the back yard!- with Michael the day he'd been told he was going to military school. He'd thought that to be the worst news in the world, then… Another memory; another image. Then another. Sights, sounds, all forced their way into Jack's mind, not caring the pain they caused him. Michael's smile, his hearty, chuckling laugh; his shiny, silvery-blonde hair, so close to Jack's it was identical. Michael's undying love for the people around him, and his unquestioning loyalty to his big brother, Jack. Michael had never feared any danger when Jack was around; he would simply point, alert Jack, and big brother would always take care of it.

Once some bad people had sped through their neighborhood while Michael was playing in the front yard; Michael had looked up at the loud, popping bangs that sounded like fireworks, and the warbling scream that he was coming to know were police sirens. But suddenly, his vision of the speeding, dented gray Buick and the five state and county Fords behind it was blotted out by a shape; red cloth and blue jeans, a lean, blonde-haired shape that in the space of two seconds flew across the front lawn and covered Michael until it was over.

Their parents hadn't been home; they'd gone 15 minutes up the road for a quick grocery run. When they saw the wrecked Buick a few yards down the block, the police grouped around the overturned car and the wrecker being moved in, the Merridews had all but panicked. They'd left their sons in the _front yard_! But as they got to their house, the boys weren't in the front yard. There was no sign of them. Hoping against hope, the two parents rushed in the house. Michael was playing with his toys on the rug in the living room, and Jack was sitting on the couch close by, watching TV. When asked if he'd seen what had happened, Jack said, "Nope. Guess the cops caught somebody, huh?"

Michael's unconditional trust in Jack had been forever cemented by that day. He didn't understand much of what happened, and afterwards Jack refused to talk about it. But Michael, on his own, concluded that the police had been chasing some bad people that day, and the bad people had wanted to hurt him. But Jack had hidden him from the bad people until the cops had caught them. His brother was a hero. _His_ hero.

That memory, that recollection of the day big brother was there to save little Michael from danger, hurt Jack the most. Suddenly, he sat up, his eyes red and bleary, and screamed, "_FUCK_!" If he'd just _been there_! Maybe _he_ could've done something! Maybe Michael would still be alive!

_Maybe_.

Jack lay down on his bunk sometime after that, and his last memory was the same thing he ended up doing- crying himself to sleep. That time at home, he'd cried for joy and relief, knowing how close they'd come. Had that Buick rolled into the Merridew's front yard instead of the house down the street, Jack covering his brother wouldn't have made a damn _bit_ of difference. But Jack hadn't cared. He was _alive_, and so was Michael. He'd been there when his brother had needed him. What else mattered?

What else, indeed. As Jack finally just shut down and went into an exhausted sleep, some part of his memory did come back, reminding him he'd seen a white X on his door that night.

_Good._


	2. Chapter 5- The House in the Woods

**Chapter V- The House in the Woods**

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None of the younger boys were there that night. The only ones actually summoned that second Friday night, almost a month after the first, were Roger and Andy. The rest stayed at the school, unaware of what Jack had planned for the night. As Jack moved around in the house that night, there long before any of the others, he checked a false bottom in one of the chests in the attic. He'd found some tough rope and hidden it here, adding two rolls of shipping tape from town as well. But the thing Jack wanted to make sure he had tonight, the one thing he was really after, was hidden in a compact, rectangular, ornate wooden box. He'd found it here last year; it was the Foxhounds' most prized possession now. On rare occasion, when one or two of the boys had been really bored- or very badly in need of cash- they'd actually used it to rob a store or two. The lean, mean, masked teenagers had vanished as quick as they'd shown up; even now local police had never solved this handful of odd and- they thought- isolated crimes. Opening the box, Jack smiled as its contents gleamed in the moonlight shining through the attic window.

It was a .44 Shepard revolver with 6 live rounds.

As Jack waited in the dark, though, doubts began to surface in his mind. He closed the box again, putting it away; he was unsure, suddenly, if he really wanted to use it. On the island he'd been convinced, and wanted to believe, that civilization was gone from his life forever. He was the lawmaker now, and murder was nothing to him. And why not? On the island, Jack had been able to essentially play God. The one thing that had ever been holding him back was the laws of man, of society- and those were all gone on the island. The only other safeguard on Jack's reckless fury was Michael, his beloved little brother. Certain he'd been presumed lost in the plane crash, convinced that his parents and- in time Michael, too- believed him dead, Jack felt so lost his hatred for the rules Ralph and Piggy were still trying to enforce was the only thing that seemed to give him direction again.

Then he'd had to start making up myths about the Beast. He'd never needed them while there was still a "civilized" society to rebel against on the island, but what happens to the revolution's leader when the revolution is over, and the people realise they don't need him anymore?

Then the fury had reached a fever pitch; Roger's cold-blooded killing of Piggy still awed Jack, as did his own ingenuity in setting the jungle ablaze to force Ralph out of hiding. But it puzzled him, even now, that he'd never actually killed anybody. He was supposed to be the worst of the worst, the most savage of all the little savages who'd emerged on that island in the blue waters of the Pacific.

And yet… Jack Merridew had never killed anyone himself. Why? Was he afraid? Not actually willing to do his own dirty work? No answer Jack could think of seemed to fit.

When the Marine reconnaissance helicopters had picked them up, Jack had blanked. He just stared at things for thirty minutes or even an hour at a time, able to respond to the sound of his name but little else. They'd all been lost on that island. Every one of them; Jack had been sure- he'd known- that every one of those boys was going to die on that nameless island. What point to any rules but the most basic? What need for the old restrictions of a society that no longer existed?

But once they'd been picked up, all that had faded into nothing. Jack had been wrong, and so had everybody who had believed him. The knowledge of that- that _he_, Jack Merridew, had been totally and completely _wrong_- still bothered him. As did a growing sense that time was running out. Too many people were asking too many questions. Jack was a fox, yes; fast and clever. But even a fox could be cornered and trapped. Even a fox made mistakes.

And that was how Jack felt now; he felt like he'd messed up real bad somewhere along the line, somewhere between the moment the plane went down up to now. Things were getting out of control. Jack had discovered a lot about how cold and ruthless he could be on the island, but he'd never been a murderer- even if he only ordered it- at home. And at home, he had Michael to look after; Michael, the one person who made him at all ashamed of the fearless rebel he was. Jack Merridew felt trapped by what had happened on the island. Part of him was screaming to get rid of Ralph, and do it tonight; not because he enjoyed the idea of murder, but because he had no other choice.

As Jack waited for the others to show up, as he heard the door at the back open as the first of the summoned cadets arrived, a thought occurred to Jack that was oddly comforting.

Jack's brothers in the Foxhounds all knew of his ongoing struggle with Ralph. The upperclassmen- including Old Top, as the Davidson senior acting as leader of the secret brotherhood was known- had told Jack, Roger and the other underclassmen members that they were "sure Jack can handle it". What that really meant was "we'd better not have to". Before Thursday, Jack had been quite unsure what he was going to do with Ralph, really.

In past thinking on the situation, when he had time on his own, Jack had realised that as good as he'd gotten at shielding his heart from the prying eyes of others, he really didn't know it all that well himself. Who _was_ he? Away from the island and with Michael to care about again, what would Jack decide really mattered to him?

Yes, those had been the old questions, old worries. But they were all moot now.

Michael was gone, and nothing was left but a lot of painful memories. Jack didn't know what mattered to him _now_, because with his little brother gone, _nothing mattered at all_.

The footsteps of an approaching cadet reached the top of the stairs to the master bedroom; Jack sighed and hid the wooden box, then began descending the attic stairs. Probably it was Roger, come to give him some last-minute pep-talk.

A wiseass cadet had once remarked that Roger was to Jack what Himmler or Göring had been to Hitler. The cadet had been kicked down a flight of stairs soon afterward and advised to tell the infirmary he'd fallen down. Disagreeing with the masked cadets' story would be very bad, yes; they'd all agreed on that, standing above him. People who lied to nurses tended to get clumsier and break two arms instead of one. But Jack, later, had privately admitted to Roger that he thought the remark was actually quite true. The memory brought a small smile to his face; he'd secretly liked being compared to Hitler.

As Jack headed downstairs from the attic, he realised Roger probably would be the first to show up after him, and Roger probably would indeed be here to pep-talk Jack into going ahead and offing Ralph. He smiled a little; already the pain had dulled enough that the fury had begun to set in its place. Jack needed no convincing. He was helpless to change the past, but he could bury one troublesome remnant of it. Bury it deep, too. Jack's face twisted into a sunken and very cold smile as he descended the spiraling wooden staircase. This was gonna be fun.


	3. Chapter 6- The Boy With Two Faces

**Chapter VI- The Boy With Two Faces**

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Ralph thought about the choice he was making as he made his way through the woods, careful to make absolutely no more noise than necessary. He'd actually been thinking about it for a while now; pretty much since June when they'd gotten back. The dreams had started the first night back, and they'd just gone on since then, sometimes letting up but never going away. He kept going to sleep at night and seeing the faces of Simon and Piggy, Piggy and Simon. And Jack. Tall, lean, blonde-haired Jack Merridew, Band Company's best singer and Ralph's friend, getting meaner and more savage by the day. And worst of all was seeing Sam and Eric, Larry, Tony- seeing all of them, just falling in line and doing everything Jack said.

"We did everything just the way the grownups would've. Why didn't it work?" Piggy's words echoed in Ralph's mind. Why, indeed? Ralph had been asking for close to a year now, and no answer was forthcoming. He was tired of facing the nightmares, tired of asking questions he knew he'd never get answers to. Tired of looking at Jack, this friend who died in one nightmare and came back, looking the same but not the same at all, in another.

As the house came into view up the hill, Ralph stopped and gazed up at it briefly. "You're not gonna get away with this…" he said to the house; or rather, to the Jack he knew perfectly well was already inside. Those words, spoken to Jack on the island just after Roger's cold-blooded killing of Piggy, were as fitting a missive as Ralph could find. He expected Jack would cheat on their deal tonight somehow. He'd bring a weapon for himself for the duel, but 'forget' to bring one for Ralph; he'd find some old shotgun, hidden away in the house, and try to blow Ralph away with it. He'd do something.

Because that was just how Jack Merridew did things. He hated Ralph now, and when Jack hated somebody it didn't take much for him to want to kill them. And if he saw the person as a threat? If they made him feel afraid, endangered, as Ralph was making him feel now? The answer was already in Jack's mind. Kill and do it fast. Murder in the name of self-preservation was nothing to Jack.

Did this bother Ralph? Not as much as it should have. He wanted the nightmares to end. Any way things went down tonight, odds were Ralph would get that much at least.

But was there any chance he was wrong? Not about ending the nightmares, but about Jack. Ralph wondered, staring up at the house in the dark. What was Jack really after? During that meeting in the Colonel's office, Jack hadn't seemed murderous; just scared. He hadn't seemed a true psychopath, completely devoid of conscience and regret; he looked a lot more like a kid forced into throwing up an image he now needed people to believe. And he had Roger next to him, whose dark stare really did worry Ralph sometimes.

Ralph suddenly realised that Jack was probably far more trapped by what had happened on the island than Ralph was.

And while Jack gave off the air of someone not bothered in the least by the questions that were being put against him, Ralph still remembered the sudden widening of the eyes, the instant sheen of sweat, that had occurred when Colonel Anderson asked him, "Did you kill anyone on that island?" It had been a test question, nothing more. But Jack had all but literally loaded his pants. It might be difficult to reach that part of Jack tonight, perhaps even impossible. But suddenly Ralph was certain Jack was just as scared as he was.

There was a good, solid chance that no matter what happened in the house tonight, somebody would be facing real danger at a very young age. Ralph didn't care. He was scared, but he'd been scared before. He was ready for this.

Ralph was starting to head up the hill when a boy's voice spoke to him from the darkness.


	4. Chapter 7- Old Friends - New Enemies

**Chapter VII- Old Friends- New Enemies**

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"He's gonna kill you."

Ralph whipped around to his right, clamping a hand over his mouth. His heart thudded in his chest, and when he saw who was there, he swayed on his feet, suddenly feeling dizzy.

It was Simon.

Simon was dressed just as he'd been when he died on the island, but his body was unmarked; no blood, no stab wounds. He was also standing on a swampy pond, which wouldn't have bothered Ralph had it been January.

But it was _September_, and the temperature was well _above_ freezing.

Simon just looked at Ralph, his face vaguely sad, but for the most part blank. Pointing up the hill, he said, "You know what's happening up there in that house right now? Roger's talking to Jack. He's telling Jack to kill you _tonight_."

Ralph just stared. He tried to find words, tried to say something, but he just wheezed. The air to speak wouldn't come. What was he supposed to do? Simon was dead. Everyone had seen it happen. There was no way he could be here…

But he was. And he knew about the meeting, which probably had a story all of its own.

Simon finally said, "Ralph, Piggy's not here because he's moved on. Passed over to the other side."

Ralph finally managed to whisper, "_What_? How do you- how-"

Simon cut him off. "Roger killed Piggy, Ralph. His spear was the one that finished me off. And Jack was in charge, letting him do it. You tried to stop it. What do _you_ have to feel so bad for?"

Now tears welled in Ralph's eyes at the memory; he'd bawled his eyes out on that beach, right in front of the Marine captain. He'd done his job; done everything he was supposed to do. None of it worked. Not one single bit of any of it had worked at all.

"It was my fault. All of it was my fault." Ralph finally managed to say, barely keeping himself together. This was all too much. He just couldn't take anymore. He took a step forward, but Simon just moved- moved- back into view again, now standing on the side of the hill.

"Piggy's not here because he was sure you wouldn't waste your life over what happened to us. I stayed because I was afraid you would." Simon's sky blue eyes peered at Ralph in the dark. "Which one of us was right, Ralph?"

Ralph looked at Simon; he just didn't know what to say. Being in charge meant you were responsible; deaths under your command were your failure and no one else's. For so many sleepless nights he'd wished for the strength to just sling his uniform belt over the heating pipe in his room and put an end to the nightmares; he was tired of being the only good soldier left in a school that was supposed to produce them. But Simon had to be here for a reason.

"What do you _want_ me to do?" Ralph was all but begging Simon, all but fallen to tears. He'd just had enough. How much more was he supposed to take?

Moonlight shone down on the hill as the wind blew above, and the trees shifted; Simon was barely more than wisps of smoke now, wisps of smoke shaped like a dead boy kept alive by tortured memories. Simon's last words barely reached Ralph's ears:

"Never give up."

Then a breeze blew up the hill, and Simon was gone- if he'd ever been there in the first place.

_Never give up…_

Ralph wanted to scream. What the hell were dead kids relying on _him_ for? Why hadn't those Marines just waited another ten minutes and let Jack kill him on that damned island?

Finally he could wait no longer. Ralph quietly started making his way up the hill.

The house was dark, just as Ralph expected; Jack wouldn't want any lights on for prying eyes, especially not tonight. Walking across the unkempt stretch of lawn, littered with bricks and glass bottles the Foxhounds had cheerfully broken after emptying them, Ralph stopped at the back door. He knew who and what was probably waiting for him inside; he also knew, now at least, that Simon and Piggy would have expected better of him than to just walk into it. He was going to find his way out of this. There just had to be a way.

But while Ralph had already resolved to at least go out fighting, he'd forgotten how Roger was not only brutal, but silent. The solid mahogany leg of a chair crashed down on Ralph's head and killed the lights. Roger stood above the unconscious battalion exec, sneering in the dark; this part had been Jack's idea. Roger had wanted to use a knife to the neck instead of a chair to the head. As he dragged Ralph inside and up the stairs to the attic, Roger reminded himself that this was, for once, worth it. His patience with Jack's glory-seeking and theatrics had been wearing thin; after all, when he, Roger, had pushed the boulder that killed Piggy, Jack had been in the middle of some drawn-out and totally unnecessary argument with Ralph. Jack just didn't know how to shut up and kill sometimes.

But this time, things were different. Roger, the light-skinned boy with the dark heart, was smiling as he dragged Ralph's unconscious form inside. He didn't know what had hit Jack so hard yesterday; there were times when Jack confided in nobody, not even someone as special to him as Roger. But Roger had seen Jack when the note summoning himself and Andy was passed today; it had made him feel some pity for Ralph… and that was not a feeling Roger often knew. But that dark look in Jack's eyes… Roger smiled. The old Jack was gonna show up again tonight; Roger was sure. Everything was gonna be fine.

Ralph woke up to the sensation of somebody smacking his face. Sitting up, he found he'd been propped in a corner of the cavernous attic, and the first thing he noticed was Jack's grinning face. Ralph recoiled and sprang up, swaying dizzily on his feet and almost falling over. Jack laughed; this was just too much fun. Turning to someone behind him, Jack said, "Hey, guys- what do you know? He's up!"

Ralph raised his fists and made a clumsy swing at Jack, senses still dulled but a determination to fight returning. "Jack!" a voice called out, and the blonde boy spun on his heel and sucker-punched Ralph in the stomach. Ralph fell to one knee, gasping for air, as Jack laughed, standing above him. "I told you to stay out of my way, Ralph. I _told_ you I was gonna get you if you didn't."

Ralph stared up at the grinning, lean form of Jack Merridew, hating everything he stood for. "You know," he hissed as his breath returned, "you're a real fuckin' coward, Jack."

Jack's face darkened. "And you're a big hero. _Let's_ go!" he grabbed Ralph and forced him to his feet.

It was then that Ralph noticed Andy and Roger standing off to either side of the room; they'd cleared a wide space down the middle amidst all the boxes, trunks and stacks of old books. The space led up to a wide, ornate stained-glass window at the far end of the room.

Suddenly Jack began clapping his hands, a mocking smile on his face. "Very good, Ralph. You've figured it out."

Stall for time, Ralph told himself, thinking furiously. You've got to stall for time.

"Figured what out?" Ralph asked.

"I'm gonna kick your fucking ass, Ralph. That's what. I'm gonna shut you up for good."

Ralph shrugged, suddenly nonchalant. "If you think so."

Jack frowned, puzzled. "What?"

Ralph smiled a little, pointing at Andy and Roger. "Why'd you need those two if you were just gonna do that? Still too chicken-shit to get the hard work done yourself?"

Storm clouds formed over Jack's face; he quietly said, "Okay" and turned around, unzipping his BDU blouse and tossing it aside. He motioned to Ralph. "Go on. I'm done with this fuckin' talking bullshit. Come on, _Colonel_. Let's do this."

Ralph took off his own uniform blouse; he could use the slight improvement in mobility this would bring. Jack was fast, but Ralph was slightly stronger; it was gonna come down to which boy could use that more to his advantage.

A wolf-whistle sounded in the vast, dusty space of the attic; Ralph had done his share of PT and then some since the island; it was one of the only things that seemed to keep his mind off what had happened, if only for a short time. "Look at _you_, Colonel!" Jack crowed, then advanced with his fists raised. "Come on, Ralph. I'm hungry."

"Me too." Ralph said. Shifting so he took Jack's first fast blow on the shoulder, Ralph lashed out and punched Jack in the face. He grinned when he saw Jack stumble slightly, touching the blood on his lip. Jack smiled after a moment. So this was going to be a challenge; that was good. When Ralph moved forward next, feinting a left hook to Jack's face, Jack grabbed his wrist, ducked, and threw Ralph into a heavy piece of old luggage.

When Ralph was too slow getting up for his tastes, Jack moved in and gave Ralph a good kick in the ribs. And another. "Come on, get up! _Get the fuck up_! Time to go see Miss Piggy-tits!" he taunted. Ralph suddenly slammed an arm into the inside of Jack's knees, though, and Jack cried out as he crashed to the floor. The two quickly rolled up and faced each other, both breathing hard. For just a moment they locked eyes; there was nobody they hated more in the world than each other. Then one punch was thrown, then a kick, and it was on. Jack was still lean rather than bulky in any way; he always preferred hitting hard and fast, ending things quick. Ralph took many painful blows- and landed some too- before realising his best chance at survival was making it an extended engagement.

Ralph shifted over to the defense, drawing Jack out and making him waste his energy. Jack lashed out with a flurry of quick, cutting punches, driving Ralph up against a stack of old wood boxes and slamming his head against it. Snarling furiously, his face twisted with rage, Jack kicked Ralph in the chest with all the strength he had. It was more than enough; Ralph's head whipped back and he saw stars. Then Jack drew back a fist, meaning to land a calculated blow on Ralph's face; dimly Ralph realised Jack meant to break his nose. He ducked as Jack came towards him, but not so fast that Jack missed entirely; instead of hitting Ralph's face, Jack's fist struck the hard bone of his forehead. Pain lanced up Jack's left arm and he swore violently, backing away reflexively. "Shit. Fuck! You fuckin piece of-"

Ralph suddenly launched himself at Jack, crashing into him and forcing Jack backwards towards the window.

It was blazing hot in the attic now; both boys were sweating furiously. Jack struggled fiercely, but Ralph could already sense he was starting to lose the battle; Jack had let his fury get the best of him as he so often did, and now he was starting to wear out. It was hot outside, too; heat lightning flashed in the distance. As one ball flashed not far from the house, Jack's eyes suddenly went wide and he screamed. "What the hell did you _do_, Ralph? _What the hell are you doing_?" Ralph briefly backed away and glanced behind him. Roger and Andy were at the door to the attic, plastered against the wall, their eyes wide and staring just like Jack's. Another ball of heat lightning flashed, and as it lit up the room Ralph saw.

_Simon and Piggy were standing in the middle of the room_.

They vanished with the return of the darkness, though, and Ralph turned back a moment too late. Jack came at Ralph with the fiercest blows he could land; much to Ralph's surprise, Jack had enough strength left to win the upper hand one final time. He grabbed Ralph by the shoulders and shoved him hard, spinning him around; Ralph overcompensated in his attempt to right himself and crashed through the window. Jack stared, half-awed and half-horrified, as he stared at the gaping hole in the stained-glass window. Walking up to its edge, Jack stared down into the darkened yard.

Ralph was lying stretched out on the grass. He wasn't moving.

The lean, tall blonde stared in silence, sinking slowly to his knees as he did so. Lightning flashed in the distance; in only a few seconds thunder rumbled through the yard. How very appropriate, Jack thought vaguely.

Footsteps behind him; distantly, Jack heard Roger's stern, quiet voice telling Andy to go back to the barracks. Yes, it was perfectly fine, Roger snapped, you just get your ass back to the barracks and stop asking dumbass fuckin' questions. Then the footsteps again, boots slowly making their way across the floor to him. Roger's hand fell on his shoulder. His other set the .44 in Jack's palm.

"You wanna finish him off?" Roger's voice was inviting, generous; he sounded pleased.

"Roger… I killed him. Didn't I?"

Roger shrugged, despite knowing Jack couldn't see him. "Yeah, probably."

"You can go, if you want."

Now Roger frowned; he wasn't sure what to make of this. Jack's voice was oddly distant, detached; he just went on staring down into the heavily-overgrown gardens on the side of the house. In all likelihood, he'd just offed his worst, most hated enemy, and here Jack was, showing all the life of a sack of potatoes.

_Hey…_

Now Jack was staring down at the gun. He kicked out the last of the glass above one stretch of the floor and sat down, letting his legs dangle over the yard. Suddenly, he snapped up the revolver and fired-

-down at Ralph's body in the yard.


	5. Chapter 8- Jack's Game

**Chapter VIII- Jack's Game**

* * *

**A/N: The fight is over, and Jack has won. But victory doesn't bring him the satisfaction he'd hoped for.**

* * *

There was a loud crash of thunder at that very same instant, though, so the sound was barely audible, even to Roger. Suddenly Roger regretted giving Jack the gun; he reached for it, but Jack smacked his hand away. "Don't fuckin' touch me, Roger. Not right now."

"Come on, man. We _did it_! He's gone, let's just… get rid of him."

Jack didn't move. Finally, in that same oddly detached, quiet voice, Jack said, "Hey, how about a game, Roger?"

The curly-haired boy felt uneasy. The why of it, for most people, would have been simple. He's fifteen and just became an accomplice to murder, most would have said. Of course Roger feels uneasy. But the truth of the matter was a little more complicated; murder was no longer entirely new to Roger; he'd been involved directly twice before. He cared about Jack in some way; that was about all his anxiousness amounted to.

Setting his hands on Jack's shoulders, Roger tried to calm him, massaging Jack's sweaty, strained muscles a bit. "Come on, man," he whispered, "Let's just make sure he's dead. You did good, let's just get rid of him and go." In contrast to Jack, Roger was actually rather excited; the thrill of literally getting away with murder was something that always put Roger in a good mood. Maybe Jack would be up for some 'fun' later, once he'd come back to himself.

It was his first time killing somebody; that had to be it. Jack was mean and tough; when he worked himself up into a fury, there was nothing Jack couldn't do. And nothing anyone could do to stop him. He was the more dominant of the two, typically- but in these rare, brutal moments of truth, Roger always stepped to the fore. It was just something he was good at.

But Jack, when he did speak, did so as he opened the revolver's cylinder and emptied it. Tossing aside the empty .44 shell, Jack picked out one live one and tossed it back in the cylinder, snapping it shut. He dropped the remaining rounds on the floor next to him, and turned back to look at Roger. "How about a game, Roge?"

"A game?" Roger repeated, silently wishing for Jack to hurry the hell up and snap out of this mood of his, whatever it was.

Jack smiled a little, but the smile didn't touch his eyes. "Yeah," he nodded, "A game. I'm gonna find out if the one round I got in this gun ended up in the chamber or not. You know, Russian Roulette."

Roger tried licking his lips, but his tongue- like his mouth- had gone strangely dry. His voice likewise was losing its power. "Well… what do you want me to do?"

Jack motioned out into the remains of the garden; Ralph was most definitely dead now, but that meant nothing to Jack. He didn't care- he just did not _care_. Not anymore, about anything. Jack just wanted Roger out of the room when he blew his own brains out. Jack was oddly fascinated at the thought; he'd never tried it before.

Some people, able to recognize the signs and symptoms of Jack's odd behavior, would have noticed he was suicidal. Both Jack and Roger, had one of these people told them that, would have said something like "fucking duh". But Roger trusted Jack, and after a few moments of silent debate agreed to leave the room. "I'll head out and check the yard, make sure that sad fucker's dead," Roger added as he pocketed the four live rounds Jack had left on the wood floor of the attic. Jack made no move to stop him; he only needed the one round. Roger hoped his voice didn't betray the nervousness he felt.

If Jack 'lost'- or was it 'won'?- his Russian Roulette game… or if he cheated… the gun would still be there, and Roger would not be far behind. He wasn't about to interfere with what the Boss really wanted, not now. But he wasn't gonna let his friend go alone, should Jack make that choice. Roger might have been quite able to kill without conscience or regret, but he was a loyal friend. What empathy and kindness he had, Roger saved for Jack.

Finally, Roger started heading outside. It was time to let Jack do what he wanted to.

Inside the attic, Jack muttered a quiet prayer of thanks as Roger left the room. Thunder continued to rumble outside, and rain had at last begun to fall. Jack ran a hand along the cool, shiny steel of the revolver's barrel… he'd always loved guns. War or peace, love or hate- what the hell did they care? All they did was what somebody holding them told them to do, the way whoever designed them had made them to do it. Unprejudiced and fair.

Jack set the barrel under his chin, gasping a little in a moment of involuntary fear. He had no idea where in the cylinder the bullet he'd loaded ended up. Was something gonna happen when he pulled the trigger, or nothing?

Suddenly, Jack took the revolver away from his face; he snapped open the cylinder and spun it around so the bullet was now ready to fire. "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke, man," Jack said to no one in particular, then set the Shepard back under his chin.

It was now or never.

Jack's fingers were cold and sweaty. He gripped the revolver tight; Jack's heart thudded wildly in his chest, but he knew this was all just instinctive, involuntary fear. His brother was dead. Those words were the truth- the cold, hard, incontrovertible truth. Michael was gone. Growing up, Jack had been sure no one could ever find a weak spot anywhere in his soul. He'd been sure of it, and in time, proud of it. No one would ever find a way to hurt Jack Merridew. But then Michael had shown up in his life, and everything changed. Oddly enough, unlike many older siblings who take years to discover affection for a younger one- if they ever feel it at all- Jack had been crazy about Michael from the first day he'd seen him. Roger thought Jack was just shaken from killing somebody for the first time, and perhaps playing a little roulette just for the hell of it.

But that was okay. Jack knew he was wrong for the both of them.

There was nothing else to do, nothing else to see.

"My life is over," Jack said to no one in particular, and he tightened his grip on the revolver, steeling himself for the shot he'd never hear or feel. He hoped.

Then a man's voice spoke from behind him; not alarmed or angry, but calm and reflective.

"Oh, I wouldn't do that just yet, my boy." Jack froze; his ears told him right away this was nobody he knew, nobody he'd ever seen before. The man spoke again, and Jack detected a strange cheeriness in his voice. As if the man was almost pleased. Not at what Jack was about to do, per se, but at how things were…. _progressing_.

"Not just yet."


	6. Chapter 9- An Appointment With Destiny

**Chapter IX- An Appointment With Destiny**

* * *

**A/N: A strange visitor presents Jack with an alternative to his plan; for those who have seen the 2009 movie "Cirque du Freak: The Vampire's Assistant", a pair of familiar faces make an appearance.**

* * *

Jack whipped his head around behind him, rolling back inside the attic and standing clumsily back up again. He glared daggers into the dark, pointing the revolver here, then there. "Who the fuck are you?" he hissed. He still hadn't forgotten seeing the ghosts of Piggy and Simon earlier; that had been more than enough weirdness for the night. Jack had no idea who this was, or what he wanted. But if this fucker was a cop, he was much mistaken if he thought mind-fucking Jack Merridew would get him anywhere. Jack was taking the bullet's exit, and screw anybody that didn't like it.

Jack finally spied a short, portly man sitting on one of the heavy trunks a few feet away; he was wearing a black, pin-striped suit and had a fat, shiny bald head that shone even in the dim light. His spectacles glinted as a flash of lightning reached him, and Jack saw the man was holding a black bowler hat, twirling it around on his fingers.

And he was smiling.

The man just said, "I understand how you feel, Jack… it's hard losing your kid brother. You feel betrayed, abandoned; you'd have given anything to protect him."

The bald man tossed his bowler hat up in the air, quickly snatching it back. "Unlike your parents."

Jack felt a rush of anger; even he didn't bother trying to fool himself as to why he was a military school anymore. Anybody could tell it was nobody's fault but his own.

"My parents are good people," Jack said quietly, anger in his voice.

Now the visitor looked surprised. "Oh! And what if I told you they'd been _planning_ on getting a mesh screen for that back porch, but, shall we say, found _other_ uses for the money?"

Jack stared. How did the man _know all this_?

"You're lying." Jack knew this man had to be. But he was already starting to fight against a very weird feeling… nearly everything the man had said was exactly right, perfectly correct. He knew as much as Jack did, and nobody outside of immediate family had even been told yet.

How did he _know_?

But the man just smiled indulgently at Jack's rather weak accusation, shrugging it off as if he knew Jack didn't actually mean it. And the man did it for just that reason- he knew this boy was already buying it. He was going for the bait dangling before him, and in just a little while he'd swallow it, hook, line and sinker.

"Why would I be lying? Why indeed, when you yourself know your parents could have installed that mesh screen on the upstairs porch years ago? But that '58 Corvette kept coming up in daddy's mind, didn't it?"

The bowler hat went up in the air again. "Ah," the man said in that same oddly cheerful voice, "but I don't suppose your parents can be blamed. After all, they wanted nothing more than to get you both out of the house, have that '58 on the road, all to themselves…"

Rage flashed through Jack, and he grabbed a heavy suitcase and threw it across the room, screaming now. "Shut up! I'm getting _real_ sick of your shit, bald guy!"

But even as the suitcase crashed into a trunk just two feet away from him the bald little man never flinched. He set the bowler down and took out a small cloth, taking the spectacles off and cleaning them with it. "You've got a lot of anger, Jack."

"Would you like me to show you a _better_ way to use it?"

Jack suddenly went very still.

Seeing he had Jack's attention, the strange man went on, "You push smaller boys around at that school, and you think you know what power is. You've seen nothing of power, my boy. Not yet."

His voice rising in anger again, Jack said, "Are you fuckin' _mocking_ me?"

Replacing the spectacles, the man now looked directly at Jack, a strange light dancing in his eyes. "You're so angry, Jack. I can feel all that _hate_ you have. It's quite impressive, that much anger in a boy you're age."

"Oh, and let's not forget you're a murderer, Jack. Blood's on your hands now."

Jack stared at the man. He didn't know what the hell to do, or to think. The .44 Shepard was in his hand. Dimly it occurred to Jack that he could, if he wanted to, snap up the revolver and blow this weird bald fucker away.

But for some reason… he didn't want to. Some voice in his mind, not so quiet now, was saying _wait_. _Wait and see where this goes_.

Jack gazed at the man in the dark, and again the question came back to him.

How did he know? _Where_ was this man's knowledge coming from?

Finally he asked, "How did you know my name?"

"Oh, I know a lot of things most don't," the man replied easily.

Jack laughed, cold and bitter. "Fuckin' freak."

The man had been gazing off into space again; now his stare swing back to Jack, and his eyes flashed with sudden anger. "Oh, my boy! I am no _freak_! Can a _freak_ bend and even _pause_ time as he likes? Could some mere _freak_ offer two angry young boys a way to use that anger for something less _trivial_ than killing their schoolmates?"

Now fear stole into Jack, a kind of fear he'd never known before. Jack had tried some crazy drugs since his teenage years had started, and never had he seen someone make so many insane claims, display such maddeningly inexplicable knowledge… and be so damn _sure_ of every bit of it.

If even _half_ of him was the real deal…

_Even half…_

Jack found no urge to raise the gun. He suddenly felt like an act of violence towards this man would not only be futile- somehow- but that trying to harm this man would not be in Jack's best interests.

He wanted to hear more of what this man had to say.

"You said 'two boys'," Jack said. "I told Roger to go outside-"

"So you could shoot yourself," the odd little man finished. That smile on his face was odd… Jack wondered if the man was silently mocking him.

Jack rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, a mannerism he sometimes used when feeling sheepish embarrassment. "Yeah."

Suddenly the man perked up, as if remembering something important. "Well! I expect you'll want your friend to join us."

Turning to the doorway, he called, "Murlaugh!"

The door to the attic crashed open and in swept a tall, tough and very disheveled man. His appearance was as unrefined as it was terrifying, but what truly frightened Jack was when he turned around. There was madness in his eyes, more like a killing dog than a person.

And he had a long, savage-looking blade on one hand, held tightly to Roger's throat.

The boy's head was yanked back so the throat was exposed, an easy target, and tears of the purest terror were running down Roger's face.

The odd man seemed displeased in turn at Jack's expression, so he said, "Come, Murlaugh, is that any way to treat a guest? We came all this way for these two; I'll not have you treating them like cattle."

The tall man grunted after a moment, reluctantly withdrawing the blade and shoving Roger towards Jack; with a whimper of fear Roger toppled, his knees too weak to keep him up. Then Jack reached him, helped him to his feet again. The two stood, took a seat on another of the large, heavy trunks, and faced their visitors together.

"Bags of blood," the tall man said, sneering at them. "That's all they are; bags of blood."

The man in the pin-striped suit shook his head, disappointed. "You could never do my job, Murlaugh, good as you are at yours. These boys have such great potential… they're just _teeming_ with it."

Murlaugh snorted.

The man shook his head again, turning his attention back to the two boys. Heavy rain was falling outside now.

"Boys. Would you like to go for a ride? I'm late for an appointment, you see, and it would be just capital if you boys could come along." As he spoke, the pudgy man took a strange, heart-shaped watch from his coat pocket, glanced at it, and pocketed it again, nodding to himself.

Jack couldn't define just what was strange about it, even thinking back on it later. But Jack had never seen a watch that seemed to shift from pinkish-gold to silvery-gold and back again, as if instead of the light playing tricks on it, _it_ was playing tricks with the light. That _was_ strange, even if the timepiece was otherwise an ordinary pocket watch.

Jack laughed nervously, saying, "I think our moms told us enough about taking rides in cars with strange men."

The man came right back, a little reproachfully, "I think we've both seen how well your parents have done to look out for _you_, Jack."

Roger suddenly stood, his recent fear forgotten. Suddenly he had never been more sure of himself, never more certain of anything in the world. He turned to Jack, who still sat on the trunk, looking up at him. "Come on, Jack," he said quietly. "Let's go."

Jack stared. "Why?"

"Why _not_?"

The man spoke from his seat across the room. "Boys, I really do have to be going, so you'll need to decide soon. But I'd be prepared, if I were you, to leave all this behind you."

The two turned to the odd man. "Leave _what_ behind? What do you mean?" Jack said, mystified.

The man looked back from behind his spectacles as if the answer was obvious. "Your old lives, boys. Sometimes we have these little appointments with destiny, and whether we see it or not at the time, our lives are permanently changed afterward."

"You both have one of those appointments tonight. I'm just letting you know now. Be prepared to leave everything behind, start over again."

Jack suddenly guessed the strange man's meaning. "You mean… I can't see my family again? My friends at school?"

The man nodded. "Never. It's part of the deal, Jack. You can't have them both I'm afraid."

"Will they think I'm dead?" Jack asked.

"To them, you _will_ be dead. Quite literally. Once I've made you boys, shall we say, my little offer, if you accept you'll have to die first. But there is life beyond death _if_ one has the power to make it. I can prove it, boys. Don't doubt me on that." The man was nothing but sure of himself. And it seemed like his claims were getting stranger all the time. And more convincing.

Roger turned to the odd man now, speaking to him, but also to Jack. "I'm the biggest mistake my parents ever made. They just keep me here all year, and even when I'm home it's like I don't exist."

The sandy-brown –haired boy shook his head, looking down at the floor in disappointment. Why bother hiding this now? The strange man in the suit, whoever he was, probably knew this already. And he'd already told Jack. Why bother pretending?

"Besides," Roger said with a shrug, "my perfect sister's off in her second year at Yale. She's just so _perfect_." Roger's voice held real bitterness now. "No. I'm good with whatever deal you got, man. My folks won't miss me."

Then Roger turned back to Jack. "Look, man- what the hell's holding you back? This guy's making us an offer you don't see every fuckin' day!"

Jack looked up at his friend, then faltered, finding he couldn't quite meet those stormy eyes. "M-Michael's dead, Roger."

Roger stopped; his eyes became more than a little moist. "Oh, God, Jack. I'm so sorry."

The attic was silent for a full minute, the rain pouring down outside and lighting flashing once in a while. The tall, savage man wanted to kill them both; he thought these little whelps barely worth anyone's time. They were good for food, nothing else. But the boss thought otherwise, for whatever reason. The man in the suit merely waited, that perennial smile still on his face. He did have an appointment tonight, and he did want to get to it. But these two boys _were_ the appointment; he merely mentioned a shortage of time to hasten their decision. The truth was that he had all the time in the world. It was a phrase unusually true for this man, much more than most.

Finally, Roger knelt in front of his best friend. They'd been through hell on the island, and they'd gone through a good deal more of it, hiding all that had happened since their return. Jack was his best friend; Roger was not going without him.

"Jack," he said quietly, "What are we waiting for?"

Jack looked up at his friend, blinking away tears trying to force their way into his eyes. "I don't know. We don't know what this guy wants, or where he's going to take us."

Roger spoke with great calm. For some reason he wasn't worried about the stuff he didn't know about this strange man, or his strange offer. For some reason he wanted to take the offer, and damn the torpedoes, seen and unseen.

"He says he can tell us what to do with our anger. How we can use it."

"He says we can start new lives."

After a few moments, Jack said, "Well… it's not like we're leaving a lot behind."

Roger nodded. "Exactly."

Behind them, the odd little man grinned. The boys were coming around.

Suddenly, Jack hissed, "He always did want that fucking car! They left all the looking after my brother- all of it that mattered- to me! I had to do all the hard work and they… they fuckin' let him go. They didn't even think about how bad it would hurt me."

Jack shook his head, sad and furious both. "Maybe you're right, Roge," he said. "I don't think my folks will mind much, either. Hell, with both of us gone, they can have their old lives back."

"And my folks won't have any loser kid brother taking time and money away from the perfect big sister."

Finally, Roger held out his hand, looking down at his friend. "Come on, Jack. It's time to go."

Jack stared up at his friend, looking into Roger's eyes for any hint of uncertainty or hesitation. He found none. Jack reached out and took his friend's hand, and the two stood and faced the strange man together. He beamed at them.

"We're ready to go when you are, mister", Jack said. He meant it. To hell with all this. The hell with every damn _bit_ of it.

The man beamed still, nodding his head in satisfaction and approval. "Excellent, excellent! Come along then, boys! We'll take my car." With that, the man stood and swept out of the room, vanishing down the dark hallway.

Roger and Jack started to follow, but suddenly stopped short- where had the tall man gone?

Suddenly, Murlaugh was behind them; the revolver was plucked from Jack's hand by rough fingers, tossed aside as if it were a toy. Then those hands were gripping Jack and Roger, shoving- almost dragging- them along the hallway and back downstairs. Murlaugh didn't respond to questions the boys asked, and after a short while they gave it up. Jack hoped this guy, whoever he was, would stop looking at him and Roger like he wanted to eat them. Odds were he probably did.

They waited at the front door as a long, very old- and strange- black limousine pulled in the front drive. Perhaps it was the downpour obscuring the view, but Jack had never, ever seen a car that looked like that one before. It was shaped like a car from the fifties, yet at closer glance it better resembled one from the forties. It was three kinds of European and two decades of American, all at the same time. And its exhaust rumbled like a hot-rod; never had Jack seen a limousine that did that. Not the way _this_ car did.

Suddenly he was outside, rain pattering down on his head, soaking his finely-combed blonde hair. Jack instinctively jammed his PC down on his head, Roger doing likewise; Murlaugh snorted and gave them one more shove towards the limo before heading off towards the car himself, getting in on the other side.

The two boys stopped at the limousine's right rear door, and suddenly, slowly, it swung open. "Get in!" the smiling, bald man inside said, waving to them invitingly. Jack froze; how had the door opened when nobody was even sitting on the right side of the car?

Roger tugged at him, smiling a little bit. "Come on," he said, "I wanna get out of this rain."

Jack took his friend's hand briefly; their fingers intertwined for a moment, and each boy gave the other a shy smile. "You remember when you said you'd follow me anywhere?" Jack said quietly.

Roger nodded. "Yeah."

"Looks like I gotta say the same thing about you."

Roger shook his head, blushing a little. "You'll never have to, boss."

Boss. Jack smiled; Roger really did look to him for leadership, for whatever reason. He sensed that wherever they were going now, whatever they were going to do, that bond would be needed, more than ever. Jack was all Roger had, and vice versa. But Jack didn't care; whatever he had ahead of him was better than what he was leaving behind. Roger had been right about that.

The two then turned and got inside the limousine, grateful when the door shut- again, from apparently no action by anyone inside or outside the car- and cut out the drumming wetness of the rain. Inside, Murlaugh was seated on a bench seat up against the car's glass driver's compartment partition, looking a little more mangy and crazed now that he'd been out in the rain. He just stared at the boys now, probably remaining quiet out of respect for his boss, the man in the old-fashioned suit.

Jack and Roger didn't want to sit next to either of their new acquaintances, but it was either sit beside Murlaugh or sit beside the odd man in the suit. Both boys accordingly sat down beside the man in the suit.

As the car got moving, pulling away from the house and down the road into the rain, Jack thought aloud, "Somebody's gonna find Ralph's body."

The odd man just shook his head, smiling indulgently. "Oh, no need to worry about that, Jack. No need at all."

Jack looked at the man. "What, you can deal with that- like, hide _bodies_ and stuff?"

The man looked squarely back at him, that smile still on his face. "And a great deal more, Jack. Plenty more than that."

After a few minutes of silence, Jack could sit quiet no longer. He had to ask another question. One for now, at least, though soon there would need to be many more- and answers for each. But for now, for right now, just one answer to a single question would do.

"Hey, uh, mister- you got a name?"

The man nodded, smiling as always. "I do indeed."

"They call me _Mister_ Tiny."


	7. Chapter 10- Aftershocks

**Chapter X- Aftershocks**

* * *

**A/N: I thought about ending the story with Chapter IX, but again decided to add one more; this chapter gives an epilogue to the story, showing the truth- and otherwise- to the thoughts of Jack, Roger, and some of Mr. Tiny's claims. Tiny's liking for manipulating people with half-truths and outright lies- albeit very convincing ones- is well-illustrated here if you keep in mind the things he says in Chapter IX.**

* * *

Ralph Meyer, Jack Merridew, Roger Matthews. All three had gone missing on the same night, the same day, the same year. For weeks, the parents of each boy had kept up with police reports, hoping against hope that when the law did find their son, it would be before… no, that was unthinkable. Unbearable. The boys just _had_ to be found.

One, Ralph, never resurfaced. Some eventually assumed- or told themselves to assume- that Ralph had run away, perhaps to start a new life and in time completely forget what he'd been through on that lone island in the Pacific.

The other two were found.

One week after their disappearance, exactly seven days after they were marked as missing, the bodies of Jack Merridew and Roger Matthews were found beneath the Great Oak, a massive, 240-year-old White Oak tree that stood on a hill, deep within the wooded grounds far behind the Davidson Military School. From what the sheriff's deputies had been able to piece together, the boys had gotten up on one of the tree's higher branches. After presumably sitting there for a time, they'd fallen off backwards. Deliberately.

The county coroner found little reason to disagree; the deaths of Roger and Jack were ruled suicides. No one, not even the coroner, noticed the little scars on the tips of their fingers. Had someone noticed, it would have been impossible for them to have known what that signified anyway. But still, had anyone seen, the sight would have been strange indeed. It would have looked like both boys' fingers were briefly punctured by… human nails. Unusually sharp ones.

It was quiet in the Merridew household.

Michael was dead, and as difficult as it was to believe it _had_ been an accident. Charles Merridew was sure of it. How else could it have happened? He and Susan were good people; caring and protective parents who wanted only the best for their two boys. Accidents happened sometimes; that was just how things were.

Small comfort.

But then Jack had gone missing, and within a day Charles had begun to fear the worst. It just fit too perfectly; Michael dead and within the next day Jack is missing, leaving no sign of where he's gone or why. Charles knew he should've been out there in person; he should've just driven straight out to Davidson and taken Jack home. He should've known Jack would do something desperate when he learned of his little brother's death; it was the one thing that had always held the power to destabilize Jack, to send him over the edge.

For that whole week the Merridews had hoped and prayed, hoped and prayed. Desperately waiting for some kind of news, any news… anything but what they somehow knew they'd have to hear.

And then the knock had come at the door; for the rest of her life Susan Merridew would hate to hear that sound. It would always bring her mind back in time, forcibly and coldly remind her of the day she'd lost both her boys. The sheer grief of the loss threatened to bury her; Susan was hard-pressed many days to not just give up and let it. But somehow, each day, she found enough strength to get up and do what she needed to do.

Mrs. Matthews called regularly, and despite living a few states away, the two had talked about visiting one another. Susan found this actually helped, somehow- she knew the Matthews woman had it worse than her. Her husband had left the family years ago, and she just hadn't had time to both support the family on her own and spend proper time with Roger. Now, Rhoda Matthews feared it was her busy work schedule that had helped drive her boy to killing himself. While Susan sympathized greatly with the Meyers and still hoped Ralph would be found, there was somehow a limit to what they could talk about with the Merridews. Susan got to feeling that somehow, the Meyers believed her boy- and possibly Roger also- responsible for Ralph's disappearance. Just how or why even the Meyers seemed unsure of, but their certainty was startling, and it made things awkward, even when the Meyer's themselves wanted to talk.

Rhoda Matthews was the opposite- the fact that their boys had killed themselves together had forever bonded the Merridew and Matthews households, uniting them in their grief. Susan wished this bond could have happened another way. _Any_ other way.

Charles had to take a full month off from work, then two, both for himself and his wife. Those few friends who saw Charles during that time would later describe to others a man so struck by loss it defied words. He was a broken man. Charles Merridew had given parenting his all; nothing had made him happier than to watch his boys start to grow up in the world with him and Susan watching them all the way.

But now it was all over.

Charles came home one day to find Susan asleep again; she was sleeping far too much these days, but what else was there to do? He'd also discovered, upon making his rounds of their home, that Susan had hidden or turned over every picture of the boys, anywhere in the house. That Charles Merridew could find no fault with. He tried taking one of the pictures off the mantelpiece and righting it, gazing at it from the couch for a time. It had been the photo Jack prized most. Jack, in his gray Davidson uniform, was grinning like the Cheshire Cat as he held Michael up for the camera; Michael was grinning too, his face half-hidden under Jack's dress uniform hat. But after just a few minutes, Charles had stood up and turned the framed picture over again.

He couldn't bear to look at it.

And yet… somehow…

It was a feeling so vague, so impossible to define or prove, that Charles Merridew never dared mention it to his wife. But it was there nonetheless. Charles almost wondered if there really was life after death, or if Jack had managed to live on, somehow.

It was impossible, of course. Charles Merridew had buried both his sons; he'd seen their pale, sleeping faces, held their cool, lifeless hands. They were gone and he'd seen the proof himself.

The two gray headstones in the family cemetery were pretty hard to argue with.

But the feeling was still there. Part of it Charles traced back to the day he'd been at Jack's funeral; Jack's face had regained a bit of its colour, and somehow, Jack had looked as if he really _had_ been sleeping. Charles just wished Jack could've woken up.


End file.
